The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [69]
“Why did you want to see me?” I asked without preamble.
“Is that all you can say? Rather brusque, is it not?”
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “It has been an extremely difficult day.”
“Why, Ephraim?” she asked softly.
The use of my Christian name brought me up short, as I am sure it was intended to. “A patient died. Someone I had been attending.”
“I don’t understand how you endure all that death and suffering,” she said. Her empathy seemed genuine.
“Sometimes we can prevent death and alleviate suffering,” I replied. “Thanks to men like Dr. Osler, we are getting better at both with every passing year.”
“Still …”
“Yes. One never gets used to the tragedies.”
“Was there something special about this patient … the one today?”
“She was a child. Twelve or thirteen, although no one knows for sure. She was very brave.”
“I’m so sorry,” Miss Benedict whispered. “Of what did she die?”
The scene on the river flashed before my eyes. “She worked in a factory owned by the very type of person who has dinner here. Someone who made a great deal of money while girls like Annie were slowly suffocated.”
She pulled back. “That isn’t fair,” she exclaimed. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “That really isn’t fair.”
I could not believe I had allowed such a hurtful remark to escape my lips. Yet the anger I felt was real. “I am sorry. Truly. It was not at all fair.”
Miss Benedict regained her composure but sat up straight in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.
“You are angry, and not simply because of your patient. Are you going to tell me why?”
“Do you know George Turk?” I asked.
“No. Should I?”
“Are you sure? George … Turk.” I repeated the name slowly for emphasis. I refused to be anyone’s fool, not even hers.
“If I said that I don’t know George Turk, I don’t know George Turk. Who is he, anyway?” Abigail Benedict replied, the muscles in her jaw knotting. Her egalitarian sentiments notwithstanding, she was still Hiram Benedict’s daughter and unaccustomed to being cross-questioned.
“He was the man that you went with Rebecca Lachtmann to The Fatted Calf to meet,” I said. A guess, certainly, but one that fit all the facts. And it was hard to imagine any other reason for them to be at Haggens’ establishment.
Her face changed instantly. The bellicosity vanished, replaced by astonishment. “So that was his name. How did you find out?”
“That isn’t important,” I said. “Why did you go to meet him?”
“I went so that Rebecca would not have to go alone. Thomas accompanied us. None of us knew his name, only that he had been recommended as someone who could help.”
“Who recommended him?”
“I’m not sure. Someone Thomas knows.”
“And did Turk help?”
“I don’t know. He was supposed to come to us but he never arrived. We waited at that revolting place for well over an hour but no one approached us. I wasn’t lying to you. I don’t know the man.”
“Didn’t know. George Turk is dead. He was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? When? By whom?”
“The police are currently attempting to find out. If she did not meet him that night, did Rebecca ever succeed in making contact?”
“Not that I know of, but perhaps she did later.”
“I think it is time that you gave me more of the details,” I said.
Abigail Benedict’s expression hardened once more. “No,” she replied. “I don’t think it is.”
“But why?” I asked. “How can I help if I don’t know precisely what to look for?”
“I don’t think I want your help. I thought I did, but apparently I was mistaken. I do not want the help of someone who does not trust my motives, who sits back smugly passing moral judgments on me, my family, and my friends, who eyes my every action as if I were some bacterium under a microscope. No, Ephraim, Thomas and I will have to muddle through without you. I do hope that you have sufficient honor not to transmit any of what you were told in confidence to others.”
The words hit like a slap. When she made to stand, I leapt up. “Please, Abigail. Sit down.